Room 360A
by AlkaneMetal
Summary: When a dangerous confrontation leads to the introduction of the Holmes brothers, Doctor Thanes is left scrambling under scrutinizing gazes and threats of assassination. Sherlock is unsatisfied when he finds that he is unable to pierce the veil that lays hidden beneath the layer of seemingly a normal doctor with a passion for crime and makes it his top priority to unveil the Doctor.
1. Chapter 1- The Bloody Colt

"Would you care to indulge, Doctor Thanes, of the condition of your newest patient?" The Director leant forwards in his large chair, seating his elbows onto his desk and grinning lavishly.  
Scarlett observed the man with discreet distaste. The Director- formally known as David Little, or informally known as 'Little D'- as the man often made unwanted sexual advances towards staff, ensuring his unpopularity among all who worked in Royal Northern Hospital.  
"You're referring to Mr. Tony Abbott, correct?"  
"Yes, yes," he waved his hand impatiently, as if to dismiss, "Abbott, he's in the Liverpool Faction, yes?"

Scarlett pressed her lips firmly together; the man had an infuriating habit of prying into other's businesses- a rather irksome trait when it fell down to the Scarlett's imposing motto, _"Secrecy First" _–her policy attracted all sorts, the criminals, the famous, the deviants, and the downright insane. And because it was illegal to forge medical documents, Scarlett ensured that she and all those under her were well-paid. To void her policy would mean a very expensive and quite possibly bloody turn of events.

"Oh come on," David sighed as he pinched his nose in exasperation. "You can't lie to me, Love. I know all about your _"policy-"_ I know that you work alongside the mafia and all that- I know everything! –Excepting the secrets you've somehow filed away."  
A pin could drop and the pair would hear it. Scarlett did not speak –she sat, contemplating her options, strategies- a method to somehow slip through the very narrow crack of escape.  
Scarlett's eyes darted around the room quickly- from the mahogany desk, the row of bookcases that were positioned behind David's seat like a second layer of wallpaper, the wall of windows to her right _–approximately seven feet in distance from where she sat, she noted _–the two heavy wooden doors to her left, and behind her the set of sofas and armchairs –_hardly used, more for decoration than function considering the condition of the leather._  
"You want to know how I found out, don't you?" David tapped his bottom lip with his forefinger _–an action that unconsciously brought attention to the lips._ David leant back in his expensive leather chair, folding his hands back behind his head and crossing his ankles.  
_Cockiness._ –Oh how Scarlett despised arrogance.  
"Of course you'd be thrilled to know how I was able to steal the information." David continued, as if reassuring himself. "I'll tell you –for a price of course. Your book of secrets, give it to me and I'll tell you how and who I extracted it from."  
_The idiot genuinely believed I carried a physical book of secrets..? _

Scarlett did not allow herself to hesitate. Her head fell to her chest- lowering her eyes. –_The man was a narcissist –why not ensure the idea that I was well below him?_  
Scarlett reached numbly into her white lab coat pocket and removeda battered pocketbook- David's steady eyes fell to the book instantly, a greedy expression washing up on his greying face.  
"It's here." Scarlett held the book to eye level, "I'll give it to you once you've told me how you know."  
David nodded thoughtfully, extending his hand, "Shake on it."  
Scarlett leant forwards and clasped his large hand. Behind her back she crossed her middle and forefinger.

"Excellent," a grin coiled across his face as he sat back in his chair, resting his ankle on his knee. "Yes, well, I'm sure you know a man who goes by the name '_Inkler?' _You know, a blogger, part-time student, studying to become a surgeon.- He's quite a frail man, thin- yet tall, glasses, pasty skin, you know, the sort you'd usually find in a drug den. –Your oldest friend, ring a bell?"  
Scarlett maintained her poker face, unresponsive, yet obviously listening. She stared into the depths of his dull green eyes, despising every word that fell from his smoker's-mouth.

"All I needed to do was to ask your secretary if you were seeing anyone- daft little woman, isn't she? She directed me to your friend, gave me his address and everything. It's like she _wanted_ me to know. In fact I know now that she did –came right up to my office after hours and asked me what I did with him."  
Scarlett refused to allow her fists to clench and her teeth to grit in her fury. She maintained her blank expression –her soulless stare, or rather '_The Eyes of the Dead'_ as her father fondly called them. –_He's a bit of a nutter that man, I suppose his years with the dead drove him mad.  
_"Anyways, I knocked on his door, when he answered all I had to do was point my gun at him and I was able to march right in," David continued on; he seemed frustrated with her lack of response. "I asked him about you –or rather I pointed my gun at him and told him if he didn't comply I'd shoot him in every place that wouldn't kill him, but would make breathing and moving quite difficult."  
David looked her square in the eye, "And so I did."

Scarlett hardly blinked, merely raising an unimpressed brow, "Oh, is that all? I must say, David, you leave me unsatisfied."  
David spoke through the gritted teeth of his mad grin, "Damn. Anyways, would you like to see the gun I used to shoot him?"  
Without waiting for a response, from the drawer in his desk he retrieved a Colt M1911, equipped with a military silencer. He pointed it upwards, allowing her to still see the ever present speckles of dried blood on it. _–The idiot, anyone could see that and he'd be detained for the rest of his life. Hardly sensible. _  
"As much as a fool I think this Inkler man is, I must admit, he was rather loyal. He said nothing –he didn't even give me the pleasure of his distressed moans and pleas for mercy. No, he bit his own tongue so hard that he'd be physically unable to form a word. So I left him there to expire from blood loss as I rooted through his things. I found his cell and laptop –they were both on and unlocked, I bet he assumed he'd be caught by the Scotland Yard who would burst through his door, giving him just enough time to hit the corruption file –no one would ever suspect it'd just be a man he'd never met politely knocking on his door."  
"So he's quite dead?" Scarlett asked, unable to hold her tongue.  
"Very dead." He responded, grinning.

Scarlett felt the hole in her stomach widen, like her very heart would drop through and vanish into the cold, bottomless void.  
"And now," David sighed, sounding as though he had finished a lavish meal and was prepared to sit down with a glass of expensive wine –_satisfied. _David pointed the hand gun at her, "Hand over the book."  
_"You bastard."_ Scarlett hissed. Utterly wounded, she stood, blinking through the tears that were adamant in trying to blind her. "_You-_…" she trailed off, hopeless, trapped.  
David's grin melted into something graver, he clicked off the safety on his Colt M1911 "At a loss for words? Hand me the book, or I won't hesitate to shoot you."  
Scarlett barely contained her tearful smirk, tossing him the battered pocketbook. She turned her back to him, about to leave-  
"Thank you, Scarlett, Love. You've been a real help."

And there it was, a modest _crack_ filled the air. Hardly piercing the silence of the room –_The silencer is quite effective._  
The shock struck her faster than the pain. She turned a look down at her shoulder, where blood blossomed slowly around the juncture where her shoulder met her arm. She blinked, staggering and falling against the wall.  
"Wait…" she heard faintly. "Wait, what is this?'_Lunch with mum on Tuesday.' 'Pick up milk on the way home.' 'Supper with dad on Thursday.' _This is a fucking planner! Where're the secrets!?"

David was in her line of sight, his face inches from her, his putrid smoker's breath hitting her straight in the face- "Scarlett, tell me- _Where are the secrets?_ Is it code? Huh?"  
Considering her condition, she must've looked mad as she grinned. She tapped her temple with her free hand, the other applying as much pressure to her wound as possible.  
"The book is up here, David," she laughed breathily, grinning, "In my head. If I die, so do my secrets."  
"FUCK!" David roared, crumpling to his knees and aiding her in staunching the bleeding. His gun clattered noisily around her ankles.  
With his concentration entirely on her wound, David didn't notice as Scarlett stretched to take the gun. She held it to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as in the movies where the body would fly backwards, blood squirting like a fountain through the side of his head and striking the wall where the target would lay, slowly dying. Rather, David died very quickly, the light vanishing from his eyes, as a small splatter of blood dribbled out of the single hole in his head, as the bullet did not exit through the other side and his corpse slumped limply into her lap.

Scarlett stood, staggering slightly as the bullet inside her gave a merciless throb. The door –much to Scarlett's surprise- burst open, and Scarlett's stout, tittering little secretary ran in.  
"Davie- you've done it then, she's- Oh my God…" the secretary, Mary, stood there in horror, staring down at her neat, pink kitten heels -oh-so-neatly matched her suit and skirt- that had stepped into the gradually increasing pool of blood. Her eyes wandered to David's corpse and up to Scarlett, who was still clutching both her wound and the gun. Scarlett must've been quite the sight, bloody with her own and another's blood, hair completely out of order –a rarity on its own- and the blood-shot, teary eyes.  
"Oh my G-"  
Scarlett raised the gun without blinking and pulled the trigger the second time.

*  
The day seemed full of surprises when Scarlett was roused to a group of men and women littered around David's office. They were all dressed expertly, in nice black suits with matching ear pieces. Scarlett vaguely recognised them as the Secret Service. Hazily, she wondered if they were going to give her the death sentence, which is, until she noticed that she was propped up on the hardly used sofa with a catheter stuck in her wrist providing her with the necessary amount of blood to sustain her life and plus some, she was far too exhausted to bother sparing anything more than a look from the corner of her eye.  
A woman _–about age forty, married for at least twelve years in accordance to ring on her left hand, fourth finger- _approached, extending a cellphone towards her.  
"Call for you, Doctor Thanes. Be sure to ask if you need anything."  
_A nice explanation would be great, thanks._  
But Scarlett said nothing, instead pressing the phone to her ear. The speaker, as if he was watching her –_and he probably was-_ spoke the second it neared her ear.

_ "David Little, the most narcissistic, self-absorbed, madman anyone has had the displeasure of meeting, is now dead. Thanks to you. Although I wish it could have been a lot tidier –you could have induced a heart attack rather than putting a bullet through his head and staining the hardwood."_  
"Sorry," Scarlett remarked drily, "I was a bit short on air-filled syringes at the time."  
_"Yes, well, Doctor Thanes, you'd best be prepared next time someone tries to take your life."_  
"What will you do with Mary –you know, the secretary?" Scarlett inquired, blinking groggily at the pink-clad corpse partly visible from beneath a clinically sterilized sheet.  
_"We will cremate her body, and send it to her closest relatives –the same with Mr. Little." _The caller told her in the same tone one would use when discussing the weather_. "We're all very happy of the outcome. Frankly I was certain you were dead once Mr. Little had shot you; thankfully not."  
_"You're happy with the outcome –including the dead woman?"  
_"A necessary evil."_ He responded_, "And besides, she was an accessory concerning the death of William Murray Inkler."_  
Scarlett felt the drop in her stomach once more, and a bitter taste entered her mouth, "So he's actually dead, then?"  
_"Unfortunately,"_ there was a lit to his voice, an attempt at sympathy. _"He was an increasingly smart man, it'll be a tragedy to report his death to his family."  
_"No," Scarlett said instantly. "I'll do it –I, er, just give me time to sort out all the plans for his funeral and items. I'd rather not have any information concerning –er –_you know-_ fall into someone else's hands. It's his life's work after all."  
_"Yes, of course."_ Her caller responded languidly. _"And concerning that 'you know', I'll be happy to inform you that we won't be bothering your business –only if, you comply to my requests, whenever those may occur."  
_Scarlett sighed audibly into the phone, dropping it a few inches from her ear. "There's always an _'if'_, I'm quite tired of those."  
"_Yes well, if you refuse any of my requests, I'll have the Secret Service drop in within twenty-four hours and kill you."_  
"Lovely- well, I really do like staying alive, so I guess I'll be complying." Scarlett inclined, her eyelids drooped. She shot a glance to the IV stand and its bags, easily identifying one of the clear solutions as morphine. "Anyways, I'd love to chat, but it seems your men put the drip level on my morphine a bit too high and it seems I'm going to pass out."  
The voice in her ear sounded amused, _"That's fine, and you can keep the phone, by the way."_  
"Hell no," Scarlett snorted, her words slurred. "I'm not going to have a GPS constantly with me, thanks. –And can I have your name, it'll be useful on my ever growing hit-list."  
_"Mycroft. Goodnight, Doctor Thanes."_

* * *

**So um. Finals are coming up -I'll make an honest attempt to continue with chapters.**

**Also I'm fairly certain that I have to leave a disclaimer every time I write a new chapter, so I'll just put this here:**

**I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK.**

**-AL**


	2. Chapter 2- The Holmes Complex

**Chapter Two**

"Well it's nice of you to call me again, Mycroft –how long has it been, two months since the incident? I haven't even finished with Inkler's funeral plans yet, let alone dealing with the lease on his flat."  
_"I require your aid, Doctor Thanes –it is of the utmost significance now."  
_Scarlett muffled a sigh, she turned to look out the window, which peered into the courtyard. Patients, visitors and staff alike muddled around, travelling to and fro.  
"You say that every time, Mycroft. In every single one of those thirty-three calls I've received within _two months!_ Seven of your requests included me killing a person! I'm not an assassin, Mycroft, I'm a doctor –I'm meant to save lives, not take them!"  
_"Yes, yes,"_ Mycroft interjected impatiently, _"Enough with your raving –your newest patient, is of the utmost importance to myself in a more… personal manner. My dearest brother, Sherlock Holmes."_

Scarlett rolled her eyes skywards, staring into the light of the surveillance camera above her. She knew that it was purely for decoration, to deter any misgivings and misbehaviour. Nonetheless, she made it a habit to review the surveillance videos each night before bed –oddly enough it helped her sleep when she knew she wasn't being hunted.

"And?" she prompted.  
Mycroft gave an audible sigh, as though it were obvious what he wanted her to do. _"Sherlock Holmes is guaranteed to have the best care provided by yourself –and exclusively so. Has any other staff been in contact with him?"  
_Scarlett thought back, "The paramedics who restarted his heart on the way here, and the three surgeons under my ward who maintained that heart beat until he was stable."  
_"Give me their names, Doctor Thanes." _Mycroft pressed, irritably. And she did.  
"Don't kill them, Mycroft," Scarlett warned him, "I'll be far from happy if you do."  
_"Of course I won't kill them –no need for needless bloodshed."_ He responded, relief in his tone. _"Concerning the matter of my brother, I will warn you, Sherlock isn't the most delightful to be around. He'll discover any dirty little secret you're hiding and throw it in your face."  
_Scarlett turned an annoyed look down to her arms, where she knew numerous scratches and bruises lay from her patients who decided to get a bit wild. She often had to subdue the hysterical with a good nick to cheek, where she could easily claim self-defense if a court case came up about it.  
"I'll have no complaints if I'm forced to subdue him."  
_"So long as he's alive and his reputation remains untarnished."_  
"It's done then –and really Mycroft, when are we going to meet? All my coworkers are mad with curiosity about this mysterious man who keeps calling me. I'd love to meet up for a chat and give you a right kick in the shin."  
_"As lovely as that sounds,"_ Mycroft replied, amused, _"I'll have to keep any rendezvous between us to an absolute minimum –and only in dire situations should we meet."  
_Scarlett gave a mocking, disappointed sigh. "Your loss –anyways I'd better tend to my patient –never have I seen anyone so closely resembling a beehive." She hung up without waiting for a response, the action caused a grin to cross her face at the image of the man peering down at the phone with undisguised indignation.

* * *

The man who lay in the cot opened his eyes upon the soft squeak of the hinges as the door swung open. –A surprise, as he should have been still restrained by a medically induced coma. Scarlett eyed the man, taking in his undiluted pupils as a sign that any drugs he had been given or taken were well from his system.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. What a pleasure it is to see you up among the conscious," Scarlett remarked, in her most professional voice. She stood at his bedside, pulling back his stained bed sheet –clicking her tongue at the bloody state of the cot. When she turned away to fetch a new sheet from the cupboard, Scarlett felt his eyes on her. She turned a glance at him, meeting his probing eyes. Carefully, she pulled a sheet from the top of the pile, and returned to his side. She folded the dirty sheet onto a trolley and lay the freshly laundered sheet over top of him, tucking it around him.  
Casually, she prodded his upper thigh –she watched his eyes flicker. It had hurt him.  
Scarlett pressed her lips together, and raised a brow at the man. "Mr. Holmes, if you don't mind, I require your assistance in removing your trousers."  
He stared back at her, "I do mind."  
"Doesn't matter," Scarlett flicked the sheet off him, took hold of the waistband of his trousers and tugged them down smoothly over his thighs. Blood had blotted through his pants. He spared her a glance that clearly said, _'I dare you.'  
_Never one to back down from a challenge, Scarlett pushed down the waist of his bloody pants. She grimaced at the sight –down his upper left thigh was a long cut –peppered with track marks galore, both puss and blood leaked from the wound, and it was black from infection.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath. "Damn their incompetence –they were supposed to do a full-body examination… How could they miss beneath his pants..?"

She turned her back to the man, pulling free her cellphone from a pocket in her lab coat. She held down the number _4_ which speed-dialled her new secretary.  
_"Hello, Doctor Scarlett Thanes' office. Henry speakin'."  
_"Henry, it's me. You see the list of numbers I left you? Dial the last three numbers and tell them to come to Room 360A, in the ICU, left wing. It's important –they're in serious trouble."  
_"Yes, ma'am. Er –I have a question for you ma'am, a real private question."_  
"If it's regarding the psoriasis on your left ankle, I've already told you to make an appointment with a dermatologist."  
_"No, ma'am that's not-"  
_"Well, whatever it is can wait," Scarlett responded impatiently, "I've got more important calls to make- oh and tell one of the staff to bring a new hospital outfit- and some pants." She tossed a brief look back at her patient's waist. "About a medium, long. Have a pleasant morning, Henry."  
She hung up swiftly, flicking through her contacts with clear agitation. When she found it she paused before clicking the number, turning a look back to her patient. "We'll be with you in a short moment, Mr. Holmes. And we'll have that wound of yours cleaned up in no time- by the way, you can call me Doctor Thanes."

He gazed back at her with a look that screamed _'bored to tears.'_ "That's a dreadfully old phone."  
Scarlett smiled stiffly, "Yes, well, it got me through Oxford, and a brief semester overseas at Harvard."  
"Have you ever considered replacing it?" he inquired, turning his eyes back up at the ceiling –appearing not at all concerned about his exposed flesh.  
She hid a smile. "I've had the opportunity. But I turned it down –well, see you in a few."  
She turned from the room, clicking the number on her phone just as the door swung shut behind her.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes –this is your one and only warning. If you do not eat, I _will_ pierce a needle through you and _make_ you eat."  
"Well, it's not the first time I've had a needle in me, as you know."

Scarlett hid her amused expression and planted the tray of fresh fruit and biscuits onto his chest, and dropped down into a nearby chair to ensure that he finished every bite.  
Sherlock stared down at the tray with hardly muffled distaste. "I don't care for plums."  
"Then hand one here, because I do." Scarlett caught the plum he tossed at her, raising her brows as she bit into it.  
Sherlock turned his eyes back down to his tray, and popped a slice of apple into his mouth, "Testing your reflexes –tell me, those surgeons earlier, they're afraid of you, yes?"  
"I should hope so," Scarlett remarked, chewing. "I paid good money to ensure that."  
"Are you paid well?"  
"Well enough," she responded vaguely.  
He looked at her, a biscuit hovering inches from his bowed lips. "How much?"  
"About seventy-two million every half year."  
"Nice," he responded curtly, forcing the biscuit into his mouth.

The pair sat in silence for a moment longer, until a gentle knock sounded on the closed door.  
"Come in," Scarlett called, before her Sherlock had a chance to open his mouth.  
"It's my room," he hissed a her.  
"Technically, it's mine," she hissed back under her breath, smiling at the man who opened the door.

"Good evenin', ma'am," Henry inclined his neatly cropped head. He flicked his eyes briefly to the man in the cot, who lay without a shirt.  
"Henry," Scarlett greeted him with a polite smile. "This is Mr. Holmes."  
"Mr. Holmes, pleasure to meet ya'. I hear you'll be taking up most of Doctor Thanes' time 'til you're better." Henry extended his hand for Sherlock to shake, but it was ignored. Sherlock merely hummed, biting into another biscuit.  
"Yes well," Henry cleared his throat, rubbing his hands on his cotton pants, smiling stiffly. "Doctor Thanes –er- Scarlett. I was wonderin' if you'd like to go out for drinks?"  
"Oh, I can't leave the hospital for another seven hours, Henry. But if you could, could you bring me back a coffee?"  
"One for myself, too." Sherlock inclined, raising a finger importantly, "Two sugars and a spoonful of milk."  
Scarlett smiled up at Henry, "You know how I like mine, and can you get it from somewhere other than the cafeteria? Their coffee tastes remarkably like piss, no matter how much sugar you put in it."  
Henry cleared his throat, "Er –yeah, I'll be right on it, ma'am." His eyes flickered to Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes."

The second the door closed shut behind Henry, Sherlock snorted out a laugh. "He's so obviously in love with you it's almost sickening. A new haircut, a touch of cologne- he wanted to make an impression on you obviously."  
"Don't I know it," Scarlett remarked, hiding her grin beneath the pit of her plum, before she deftly tossed it in the bin. "Ah well, it makes for a loyal secretary."  
"You're playing him?"  
"Like a violin."  
"I play the violin," he told her casually, setting aside the tray and folding his hands together on top of his chest.  
Scarlett turned a look to the courtyard, where she could easily identify Henry's gait as he hobbled towards the exit. "Yes, I know. Your brother told me."  
Sherlock stared at her in full, "What else did he tell you?"  
"Your pants size." Scarlett returned his look, her brown eyes alight with mirth. Sherlock narrowed his eyes only slightly, "No you didn't you figured that out yourself, just this morning."  
"Did I?" Scarlett stood from her chair, tucking her hands into her pocket to retrieving her buzzing phone. "How can you be sure, Mr. Holmes? I've talked to your brother on numerous accounts."  
She held up a manicured finger as he opened his mouth to respond, pressing the cell to her ear.

"Hello, Doctor Scarlett Thanes, speaking."  
_"Scarlett –it's William's mother –Sherrie Inkler in case you've forgotten. I have a man here, a Mike..? Holmes, he says." _  
"Hello, Sherrie," Scarlett responded professionally, "Do you happen to mean Mycroft?"  
Sherlock perked up considerable, opening his mouth a second time. –Scarlett shushed him, frowning into the phone.  
_"He says that's what his friends call him –anyways he mentioned something about William and a shoot-up? Is that true? Have you heard from William at all? I haven't –but that's not a rarity. I-"  
_Scarlett paled dramatically at her slight intake from the old woman.  
_"Mike just said that William was shot? Scarlett –Scarlett tell me –is –is he, my boy –William –is he..!"  
_"I'm sorry, Mrs. Inkler."  
_"Oh god..-"_  
Scarlett flinched at the soft wail, and hung up the phone. She ran her hands over her face, and focused her eyes on a stout, little man who was slowly making his way into the hospital, gripping a bouquet of flowers. White flowers. –_Such a practical gift of mourning._

"You're upset." Sherlock remarked from behind her. "I imagine my brother did something stupid?"  
Scarlett wiped her face clean of emotion, and visibly straightened her spine as she adopted the '_Dead Man's Look.' _She turned her soulless, brown-eyed gaze to him, ignoring Sherlock's partially naked frame. –_She was a Doctor after all, bodies were of no concern._  
"I'm fine, Mr. Holmes. Your brother happened to inform my associate's mother of his expiry. An undeniably imprudent action."  
Sherlock was staring at her, knotting his brows in confusion. His eyes flickered across her frame, as though he was unable to see-.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes." Scarlett spoke in her most professional manner. She ignored the customized ring of her cellphone –set to inform her of precisely who was calling. "It seems that I have a meeting to attend."

* * *

Minutes later, the door swung open, revealing Henry who held two coffees. He glanced around the room and swore. "Where is she, then?"  
"Took off to a meeting apparently," Sherlock responded dryly, he held out a hand for the coffee platter. "I'll take both of those in case she doesn't come back."  
"Why wouldn't she come back?" Henry exclaimed, his voice cracked embarrassingly.  
Sherlock did not turn his stare from the ceiling, "Because she may be very well dead."

* * *

**Reviews are welcome!**

**I do not own Sherlock(2010.)**

**-AL**


	3. Chapter 3- The 'Fun' In Funeral

**Chapter Three**

She lay in bed stewing –the warmth of the sheets was familiar, and welcoming –the furry body that lay next to her injured shoulder, its claws kneading the sling. The sling would be impractical for when she was working –therefore only in the privacy of her humble home would she adorn the sling.  
She spared the feline next to her a brief scratch on the top of its head as she pulled its claws from the sling and set to preparing a quick breakfast.  
She had spoken to Mycroft last night –she had called for a meeting –one that could have ended up quite bloody if it were not for the self-control she just barely maintained. –And for the sniper trained on her from the building above.  
They had met in a small café upon Scarlett's demands. Upon seeing his obnoxious, pompous face for the first time, Scarlett had felt the need to spill a half-a-pound cheese cake down the front of his suit.

Scarlett smiled into her morning coffee at the memory.

Mycroft the proceeded onto explaining that he was only doing a _neighbourly_ _favour_ by telling Inkler's mother of his death. And that he had spared Scarlett from the burden of tears and – Mycroft had said it in the most revolted tone- _empathy._  
Scarlett had then promptly splashed her hot coffee in the man's face –which earned her a warning shot –shot through the open window to pierce the plastered wall just above her head.

Scarlett slammed her empty mug down on the kitchen table irritably –she peered into her reflection in the toaster, grimacing at the state of her wild, stark red hair. She set to preparing for the rest of the day –having missed the morning of work.  
The bed was growing increasingly comfortable as of late –it just seemed a waste to leave bed nowadays, after all, her life in crime was dull –working on the whim of a pompous man was dreadfully boring.

* * *

Henry greeted her that afternoon with a distracted smile. "Good morning, Ma'am –uh I was looking at the security cameras for Mr. Holmes' room just now, and it looks like he has a guest."  
Scarlett paused from unwinding the scarf around her neck, she frowned, "Well, who is it?"  
"Not sure, Ma'am –his face doesn't check out with anyone on Mr. Holmes' guest list." Henry responded, looking up at her worriedly. "Should I head down there and check everythin' out?"  
Scarlett leaned over his shoulder, peering into the monitor _–Henry's slight intake of breath gave him away._ She pushed her dark frames up on top of her head, squinting at the slightly fuzzy video _–really, she should invest in better cameras._  
"Damn," Scarlett cursed. She jerked back from Henry and the monitor, hurrying out the door of her office and down the hall. Someone was looming in room 360A. –Someone who wasn't Mycroft Holmes.  
Scarlett quickened her pace to almost a sprint, taking hold of the pistol she kept hidden in one of the many pockets in her lab coat. She hid it beneath her arm as she turned down the ICU left wing, to the door at the end of the hall. She shoved open the door, and brought out her pistol –pointing it in the face of the unknown man.  
He slowly raised his hands, backing away from Sherlock.

"Good morning, Doctor Thanes. You look well." Sherlock remarked from the cot.  
"Sherlock," the man hissed, "Tell this woman who I am."  
"Oh right," Sherlock tipped his bowl of soup into the bin at his bedside, looking worse for wear. "Doctor Thanes, this is John Watson, my friend."  
Scarlett didn't lower the pistol, "There is no _John Watson_ on your visitor's list, Mr. Holmes."  
"And who created that visitor's list, Doctor?" Sherlock hardly spared her a second glance as he picked at the sad lump of apple pie on his tray.

Finally, Scarlett lowered the gun, putting on the safety and storing it away in her pocket.  
"Your brother did, he must have forgotten."  
"No he didn't," Sherlock sighed.  
"You're –you're just going to keep it loaded? Like that? –In your pocket?" John stuttered, bemused. Scarlett smiled lightly, "Of course I am, Mr. Watson, you can never be too unprepared."  
"This is a hospital." He remarked flatly.  
Scarlett tossed a scolding look at Sherlock as he lobbed the apple pie into the bin after his soup.  
"Yes, and I'm a criminal, Mr. Watson," Scarlett stated matter-of-factly.  
"Um, just –just John is fine. And you don't look the criminal type." John stuttered.  
"I also don't look to be the type to run a drug cartel."  
Sherlock briefly glanced up from his lap, "And do you run a drug cartel?"  
"No," Scarlett grinned fleetingly, adopting a doctoral manner within an instant. "Mr. Holmes, do you remember what I said would happen if you didn't eat?"  
Sherlock held up two plastic-wrapped crackers, his expression cleverly innocent, "I have crackers."  
"Eat," Scarlett ordered firmly.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, "So, um, is this normal, with- with the pistol and all?"  
Scarlet shrugged lightly, "It's not an everyday circumstance if that's what you're asking. But had you been threatening Mr. Holmes, I _would_ have shot you. His safety is my top priority."  
"And why's that?"  
"Because of Mycroft," Scarlett responded vaguely.  
"Ah." John settled himself in the nearest chair. "That's a reasonable explanation." He peered up at Scarlett with an interested expression. It was clear that the man was attracted to her –in more ways than one. –_Perhaps he had a danger kink?  
_"I take it you've met him before? - _Mr. Holmes put that cracker in your mouth now!"_  
Sherlock sat up further in bed, frowning much like a child would, "Eating slows down my thinking process."  
"You're not supposed to be thinking, Mr. Holmes, you're supposed to be recovering," Scarlett replied patiently. "Speaking of which, the second you finish that cracker, Mr. Holmes, is the same second I want you up and into the bath."  
"And that is where I'll take my leave," John commented loudly, he pushed up from the chair, and reached around to clap Sherlock's shoulder, in a clearly friendly manner. "See you later then, Sherlock." He nodded to Scarlett, "Doctor Thanes."  
As he walked to the door, Scarlett noticed his walk was a bit unbalanced, as if one leg was stiffer than the other. Injured, but he seemed to ignore its presence altogether. He was attuned to it... _-Perhaps a childhood trauma?_  
"Scarlett."  
John looked over his shoulder at her, curious. "Sorry?"  
"You can call me Scarlett," she repeated, a small smile curving her mouth. His expression morphed with realisation; looking pleased with himself he nodded, clearing his throat.  
"Right then, Scarlett." He turned out of the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

"You noticed it," Sherlock pointed out. He seated himself on the edge of his cot, having finished his cracker. Although he said nothing, it was obvious he was going to obey 'Doctor's Orders.'  
"He's got a bit of a limp," Scarlett noted aloud. "I take it you know why?"  
Sherlock stood, stretching his long limbs, "He's bored."  
"So…" she thought for a second, her brows furrowing. "He's got some sort of kink for –what is it, danger? Has he been away from you too long?- I've read your blog, Mr. Holmes, you've certainly had quite a bit of fun, haven't you?" Sherlock didn't bother responding, instead pushing open the door and stepping out into the hallway.

"The tub is down the end of the hall –unless you've got the key card you won't be able to do a thing, Mr. Holmes." Scarlett called from the room as he marched in the opposite direction.  
"I take it you're the one with the key?" he called back, still walking.  
"I am, and it's this way, Mr. Holmes." Scarlett called after him, a smile in her voice.

* * *

Steam filled the room, and the light splashing of water behind the bathtub's closed curtain ensured that Sherlock hadn't drowned. Scarlett sat on the sink's counter –typically a nurse would help a patient bathe, but considering the circumstances, Scarlett was obligated to be with the man at all times outside of his room.

"So I take it you're the Chief of Staff, or similar, that's why you're allowed to do all this?" Sherlock asked from behind the starch blue curtain.  
"Working towards it," Scarlett responded honestly. "Our last Chief of Staff had a heart attack and died."  
"How's that?"  
"Poison, Mycroft's idea," Scarlet remarked cheerfully. "No skin off my teeth with that one –if anything it made my life a bit easier."  
"Boring." Sherlock sighed. There was a large splash –and from what Scarlett could tell from his silhouette, Sherlock had fallen back in the tub.  
"Hm?"  
Another large splash, as he sat up abruptly. He pushed back the curtain to reveal his face, agitated, bored.

"Working harder and harder for power, because power equals money, and ultimately –as I've been told- money means power. A dreadfully boring cycle."  
"Trust me, I'm well aware." Scarlett responded silkily. "I had hopes that this agreement between your brother and I would make things more fun. –I was wrong, apparently."  
"How unfortunate." Sherlock remarked, with one last look to her he swiped closed the curtains.  
"So I've been becoming increasingly observant," she continued, louder. "So I know for a fact that you didn't eat that cracker, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock swiped back the curtain, raising a brow, "Really?"  
Scarlett smirked, her teeth alarmingly white against her infamous red lips, "Which means I'm fully content in forcing a catheter into your vein and force feeding you."  
Sherlock pushed his lips up in a snarl, "I believe the reason I can't make sense of who you are is because you keep forcing morsels on me –I need to prove my theory correct."  
"I'll tell you something, Mr. Holmes –your theory is very wrong. I've just got a very good poker face." She leant forwards, and shucked back the rest of the curtain. "Time for you to get out, Mr. Holmes. Dry off and I'll put the antibacterial salve on your track marks –we need those to be as healed up as possible for tomorrow."  
Sherlock braced his hands on the edges of the tub, pushing up until the water sloshed around his waist, "What's tomorrow?"  
She smiled jovially, "A funeral."

* * *

"…_and under the sight of those who have passed on before him, will they take William Murray Inkler beneath their wing, and guide him here on in the afterlife…"_

"Why is there no direct mention of a 'God' –this is obviously a Christian funeral..?" Sherlock murmured under his breath. Scarlett spared a glance at him from the corner of her eye, "Inkler was far from agnostic –he had the firm opinion that God was a fictional creation, concocted by a cluster of illiterate, chauvinistic, and bigoted men.-"  
"-a logical statement," Sherlock cut in.  
"But both his parents are deeply rooted in faith, anything less than a traditional funeral and they'll kick up a fuss."  
"Ah," Sherlock nodded, tossing a sly look to the snivelling woman to his right –_Mrs. Inkler had wanted a seat next to Scarlett, fortunately, Scarlett had placed Sherlock strategically between them._ "Aren't funerals supposed to _'honour the dead'_ or something along those lines?"  
_"Oh please,_" Scarlett snorted –earning a look from a few guests. Hastily she lowered her voice beneath the preacher's. "You don't honestly believe that do you? All a funeral is, is to let a cluster of people sob on each other's shoulders about the fact that _one_ _person_ isn't going to be there."  
"Technically speaking, yes, I suppose." Sherlock murmured.

_"__May William Murray Inkler lay in eternal peace, and bring guidance to those closest to him, in hardship and in wealth. May he rest his soul. Amen."_

_"__Finally,"_ Sherlock hissed beneath his breath, pushing up the arm of his sleeve to scratch at his wrist. "This linen is absolute _murder_ on my skin."  
"Don't scratch," Scarlett scolded him lightly, brushing away his hand from his wrist, patiently tugging the fabric back over his inflamed skin.  
Row by row, beginning from the front, people began to stand, lining up to pay their respects to the coffin. Scarlett stood, brushing the wrinkles from her black skirt, and straightening her suit jacket formally. She had worn her hair down for the event _–Inkler always did like her strands of red._ And a dark red lipstick for the event –_no eye makeup, in case she felt the urge to cry._  
Scarlett took Sherlock's hand, an action in which she could ensure that he did not scratch, and led him up to the closed casket. She bowed her head respectfully to the portrait, laying the white rose she had put into her suit pocket onto the table before the portrait. She nudged Sherlock to follow the action, hiding her expression when he hastily complied.  
"An empty casket?" he muttered, bending his head so his lips were at her ear. "Why bother?"  
"He was cremated, and I've already spread his ashes. This is for his mother." She replied quietly, tossing a cautious look back at Mrs. Inkler, who had coiled into the chest of her husband.  
"You're fooling them," Sherlock stated with little mirth, "how cruel."  
Scarlett brushed back a strand of hair that had stuck to her lipstick, she tucked it behind her ear _–Sherlock made careful note of her subconscious actions. _She smiled tightly, "What they don't know, won't hurt them."  
She moved back from the coffin, Sherlock inches from her heel. The next row lined up in turn to pay their dues –Scarlett was quick to side-step a sobbing Mrs. Inkler, and dodged behind the gathering line. She pressed her back up to the exit, her hand slipping to the handle and turning it with only the slightest click. The door fell open –and her with it. Sherlock obediently followed after her, tossing her a raised brow at the increased notion of stealth.  
Scarlett ignored his look of question, stepping out into the light drizzle. The lash of the chill stung her cheeks red, Scarlett embraced the miserable weather. _–How cleverly it fit with the occasion._  
Scarlett tucked into her purse, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter –the lighter was the inexpensive sort one would find at a dollar store, with a cheap little pattern of smiling faces staring up almost mockingly at whomever it lit.

"You don't smoke." Sherlock said this accusingly, he was frowning down at her, watching her quick fingers as she drew out a cigarette from the pack and lit up without a pause in between.  
Scarlett inhaled the smoke, savouring the stinging, pungent taste before exhaling it into the heavy air. "But I am," Scarlett mused. Her gaze did not wander from the blackened clouds, Sherlock observed her with a frustrated nature, taking her free hand, he turned it over in his own –hardly regarding the vast size difference.  
"You haven't smoked for an extended period of time, judging from the lack of discoloration on your hands and teeth, but obviously enough to have a well-practiced hand, and you're not new at smoking considering you're not choking on your own lungs like a beginner would." Sherlock drew a breath, narrowing his eyes down at her, "Accounting your sly actions to slip away from the crowd I take it that no one knows that you have a smoking habit –except me.-"  
"And Inkler," Scarlett cut in absentmindedly, "he knew everything about me."  
"We're currently attending his funeral, he's subtracted from the equation entirely." Sherlock brushed off her words without blinking, "It would seem that sneaking away beneath others' noses is a practiced habit –but you're an adult, living on your own –so it must have been practiced in your teens, rebellious age, I'm sure you're well aware.-"  
"What? You didn't have one?" Scarlett retorted, regarding him with a raised brow as she brought the cigarette up to her lips, taking a long drag.  
"I never implied that I didn't." Sherlock replied briskly.  
"So you did have one then," Scarlett remarked, surprise evident in her tone.  
"Of course not, don't be foolish," Sherlock admonished her, "I was far too busy concocting experiments to concern myself with sex and underage drinking."  
"My rebellious age wasn't quite like that," Scarlett grinned. "Mine involved a lot more vandalism and theft."  
Sherlock eyed her distastefully, "Moreover –considering your actions, a plausible conclusion is that you only smoke either recreationally or when you're under stress. Stress seems more likely, but remember, you're a doctor, you're under stress constantly –and it is confirmed from both your hands and teeth that you don't smoke often. So, recreationally. But why now? At your closest friend's funeral –and you had just admitted that he was the only person who knew of your smoking habit. So only around him that you smoked, so he must've approved of your habit –he's a smoker too. You smoke socially. And you're paying homage to him now."  
Scarlett took the last breath of her cigarette, holding it as she knelt down to bend the cigarette's head in submission. She drew up, exhaling the thick plumes.  
"That took you a second, didn't it?" Scarlett mused, her lips quirking up in a half-smile.  
"Scarlett!"  
As quick as the smile had appeared, it vanished. Scarlett cursed beneath her breath, and turned to face the church once more, scowling thoroughly. Sherlock murmured a curse of surprise as he too turned to gaze at their guest.  
"You have a sister?" he remarked lowly, surprise evident beneath his usual brooding mask.  
"Unfortunately," Scarlett sighed, tucking her numb hands into the pockets of her suit jacket. "She's a bit… _unlike you_, so brace yourself."

"Scarlett!" the woman called again as she neared. There were few differences in the woman's face from Scarlett's. Softer, less angular –the woman had more of a round facial shape against Scarlett's oval face. The greatest difference between the two sisters was the hair colour –the woman's was a sinful blonde.  
"Rose." Scarlett regarded the woman with a leveled expression. "I didn't put you on the guest list."  
Rose ignored the biting comment, and smiled softly, "How are you doing, Scar?"  
"Don't call me that," Scarlett rebutted, red lips thinned with distaste. Scarlett paused a full second, "I'm functioning, thanks."  
"Scarlett…" Rose sighed, shaking her head of blonde pityingly. "You're not a machine –give yourself time to mourn. Why don't you come down to Gerrards Cross? Get away from the pollution, criminals, and the hustle-bustle of London."  
"I'd rather not," Scarlett responded heatedly. "Besides, I can't leave my work."  
Rose sighed, rubbing her temple. "If not for yourself, do it for me? I need help with the shop."  
"I've got allergies."  
"Since when?"  
"It's a recent development. Pollen makes me break out with hives."  
"That's a load of shit, Scarlett." Rose shook her head, "Fine. Whatever. But I'm being rude –who is your friend here?"  
"Client," Scarlett corrected, tossing a look to the man. Sherlock stood tall next to her, his jacket collar popped, suit just barely visible beneath. He had been watching the exchange with a keen inquisitiveness, but was now examining Rose with a clinical sharpness. "Sherlock Holmes- Mr. Holmes, my sister Rose."  
Rose extended her hand, a too-polite smile crossing her features, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock."  
Sherlock considered the ringed hand for a moment –and only with a light prod from Scarlett's elbow- he took her hand and shook it firmly.  
"I'd like to say the same."  
Scarlett hid a smile at his ill-wording, and was quick to end the conversation. "It's been great and all, but I've got to get Mr. Holmes back to the hospital. Give the Inkler's my regards."  
Rose swept a glance at the hand that Sherlock had shook _–no doubt wondering if she had contracted some foreign disease_- and held such a maternal expression _–a mixture of disapproval and affection-_ that Scarlett was tempted to call her '_Mummy._'  
"I'll call you."  
"Please don't." Scarlett replied tonelessly, "Farewell, then." With a sweeping motion, Scarlett pressed on the small of Sherlock's back and pushed him forwards, towards the silver Eterniti parked on the side of the street.  
"I'm here if you need me!" Rose called after them.  
"Don't bother!" Scarlett called back, tucking Sherlock into the passenger seat. Scarlett ducked into the driver's side, and started the engine, heavy on the accelerator and laying down rubber as she sped from the church like a bat out of hell.

* * *

"Exasperatingly generic," Sherlock remarked blatantly, tapping his fingertips against his thigh.  
Scarlett cast him a look from the corner of her eye, lips quirking in an amused fashion, "Sorry?"  
"Your sister," Sherlock clarified, "Generic, positively suburban –easily overlooked. Is she single?"  
Scarlett's brows shot up in surprise –the man who was so obviously an asexual was taking an interest in the marital status of a woman?  
"If I recall correctly," Scarlett mused aloud, scowling at the busy London traffic, "she's in an open relationship."  
The drumming on his thigh increased, his brows furrowed with a clear pondering. _"An open relationship?"_ he echoed. Scarlett couldn't help but snort with mirth –which soon turning into a quiet chuckling when Sherlock turned an aggravated expression to her. "_An open relationship_, Mr. Holmes," Scarlett grinned at the back of a cabbie, despite its abnormally touchy brakes. "Is a relationship that isn't exclusive to one person."  
"Polygamy?"  
"No," Scarlett pressed irritably on the horn, honking loudly at the cabbie in protest of his poor braking. "Sex, Mr. Holmes. They have sex with other people, while still being in a relationship."  
"Adultery?"  
"_No,_" Scarlett stressed, "Both partners are consenting to the idea –sort of a _'don't ask, don't tell'_ situation, most of the time."

The cabbie ahead of her touched down on the brakes at a yellow light abruptly –forcing Scarlett to hastily slam on the brakes. Scarlett swore, laying on the horn a second time.  
"For God's sake, you're supposed to accelerate, you fucking maniac!" Scarlett dropped her hands into her lap, face flushed with undiluted rage. "Fuck, what's that cab's number, _I swear I'll-_"  
Scarlett ceased brusquely, calmly placing her hands back on the wheel. Her face dropped of all expression –the blood left her face, and she squared her shoulders.  
From the corner of her eye, she noted that Sherlock's observing expression creased with bemusement.

* * *

Precisely ten minutes had passed when either spoke again.  
"Mr. Holmes, why are you asking about my sister?" Scarlett spoke, her voice cut through the piercing silence of the vehicle. Sherlock blinked, turning his eyes away from her, as though he had only just realised that he had been staring.  
"Curiosity," he responded lamely.

Scarlett pulled into her designated parking spot, turning off the motor, and unhooking her seatbelt. She turned her body to face him. Her eyes, a dark brown –nearly black –pierced into him with an abnormal, uncomfortable intensity, causing visible bumps on his exposed wrists. She took to him, plucking his hand from his thigh, and bringing it close. She turned his spidery-like hand over in her own. Soft, and caressing –hands the colour of soft milk smoothed over his palm, comparing the remarkable size difference.  
"Mr. Holmes," she gazed up, her pupils indiscernible with the darkness of her irises –even with the proximity in which their bodies.  
"Never once in my career have I had a client dissect me as clinically and precisely as you. It is a _rarity_ to have my guard unbricked so efficiently, below my notice within _seconds_ after only a few probing questions. Admittedly, it stings my pride."  
Her fingers, which had been tracing patterns into his palm, floated to his wrist, gradually pushing up his sleeve.  
_"Quite frankly, I can't tell whether it frightens, or excites me."  
_Scarlett's fingers brushed over the inflamed track marks, adding more pressure to the wounds with each ticking second.  
"So I trust," the honeyed tone vanished quite suddenly, "that you won't abuse whatever deduction you've come up with. I assure you, Mr. Holmes, being my enemy is the worst possible choice for you."  
She withdrew, her fingers dusting across his flesh as she drew away. "I'd sooner rather be colleagues than adversaries."  
Sherlock cleared his throat, blinking several times before he responded, "I actively try to stay on the legal side, so I'm afraid we wouldn't be doing much business."  
Scarlett allowed a furtive smile to curl her painted lips, "We both know that isn't precisely true, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps friends would be a better term?"  
Sherlock eyed her with a level look, and unclipped his seatbelt. Scarlett allowed her grin to grow –she turned and opened her door, sliding out _–cautious in exiting, and quick to adjust the skirt that had slid up._  
The pair made towards the hospital, crossing the road from the car lot, through the gates and past the courtyard. The pair blended easily into the people entering and exiting the hospital, despite their formal attire.

"By the way," Scarlett noted loudly, as they stalked down the ICU left wing corridor. "I know that you've been scratching your marks –I'll have to revoke telly privileges for the remainder of your visit."  
Sherlock gave a menial shrug, shoving open the door to Room 360A, "No matter, television hardly produces enough brain wave activity to keep me occupied."  
"Maybe I'll take away your books then," Scarlett murmured thoughtfully. Sherlock tossed her a scandalised look, "You wouldn't dare."  
Scarlett grinned manically in a challenging manner. Sherlock gave her another leveled look, working on the buttons of his linen dress shirt. She entered the room, unabashed to his unclothing, pausing the second she crossed the doorway.  
"Wait," her voice lost its humor, her arm swinging out the halt the movement of his hands, as though any motion would disturb the critical piece of evidence that lay before them.  
She stepped further into the room, eyes scanning the bed. "Someone's been here."  
"Probably just a nurse," Sherlock remarked passively, shucking off his shirt and tossing it onto the bed. "This _is _a hospital."  
"You're losing your touch Mr. Holmes," Scarlett bent, unclipping the observation board from the end of the bed. "This entire hallway is strictly prohibited to anyone other than the patients and the elected staff under me. –Haven't you ever noticed the stillness outside in your week here?"  
Sherlock frowned, brushing an invisible lint from his kneecap, and muttered something along the lines of, _"Must be the food you're forcing through my veins…"  
_Scarlett flicked through the observation board, "Someone's been looking at this, the pages are out of order."  
Sherlock peered over her head, "No traces of oily residue, whoever it was, wore gloves. Careful, they've done this before."  
"They weren't careful enough," Scarlett remarked, attaching the clipboard back to the bed. She took to the only closet in the room, and peeled open the door. "They were looking at your belongings too," Her sharp eyes had noted the miniscule disarray of Sherlock's folded clothing.  
"You've got a camera in here, don't you?" Sherlock's voice was next to her ear. Scarlett turned, alarmed at his proximity. His hips were mere inches from hers _–precisely tw_o _and a half._ His head floated mockingly above her own, his brow raised with an emotion so fiery in his normally frozen eyes.  
"It's designed to observe, not to record, it sends the picture straight to the monitor in my office where-"her lips parted in shock, eyes widening a fraction. "_...Henry!" _  
Her face cooled, becoming professional –calm and collected. "Mr. Holmes, I would advise you to put the shirt you just had on."  
Sherlock made a face, "It puts too much friction against my skin." He complained, much like a child rather than a thirty-year-old man.  
"_Well,"_ she stressed, "your hospital room has been invaded, and it's very likely that they put something in and on your clothing. So I'm _telling you, Mr. Holmes, put on a shirt!"_

* * *

Begrudgingly, Sherlock followed after Scarlett as she sprinted down the hall, buttoning up his shirt as he went.  
Scarlett burst into her office, hand clutching her pistol. The room was abnormally silent.  
Scarlett gestured for Sherlock to stay by the door –the motion which he ignored, and followed her into the room. Scarlett bent over Henry's desk, cautiously pointing it down.

She cringed back, hissing at the sight. Sherlock peered over her, observing the mess with a clinical interest.  
Henry lay, coiled in an eagle-spread position, his chair turned over onto his legs, and his head held up by an open bottom drawer, his neck straining against the bodily disposition.  
"Asphyxiated, it seemed." Sherlock observed, "Considering the purpling on his neck, I'd say it was to make Henry only unconscious. But obviously our intruder made a mistake, Henry saw his face, and so the killer put a bullet through his head."  
Scarlett took a breath, and made note of the desk. "The list of numbers of all the staff in the hospital is gone –obviously not all the people who work under me, but we're dealing with someone who knows things about me, about what, I'm not sure, but it's safe to say-"  
"That your staff has been neutralized," Sherlock finished. Scarlett nodded, carefully tucking her pistol back into her oversized purse that she carried.  
"Right, let's go." Scarlett confirmed, drawing back from the crime scene. Sherlock turned a look round to her, appalled at her suggestion. "This is my first case in weeks –I can't just-"  
"It's my job, Mr. Holmes." Scarlett swallowed harshly, "It's my top priority to keep you safe, and until I know whether they're after either you or me, it's my job to ensure that you're in a safe location."  
"But-"  
Scarlett gazed up at him, her expression completely unguarded, the emotions that she usually kept safeguarded spilled out. The guilt –the confusion –and the fear.  
"_Please,_ Mr. Holmes."

* * *

**So uh, my excuses are as listed:**  
**1. I'm extremely sick with a flu that's knocked me off of my feet  
2. I'm lazy as fuck and I tend to have a habit of procrastinating even things I enjoy  
3. Writer's block  
4. Preparation for exams  
5. Homework**

**But this is a +5000 worded chapter!  
Rate and Review! It inspires me~**

**I do not own Sherlock.**

**-AL**


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